Brian Jacques - [Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

There was a deep, mumbling growl as a black shadow flew through the air. Landing on Scraggs’s back, the dog Denmark sank its fangs into the mate’s shoulder. As Neb went down, he grabbed for the two crewmen’s legs and held on tight.

Vanderdecken was a tall, powerfully built man who could hold his own with any crew member. Shrugging off the two who held him, he grabbed Scraggs’s knife arm with both hands. The captain swung hard, whirling the murderous mate around and around. The knife clattered to the deck as Vanderdecken swung the man, both staggering across toward the rail, then he released Scraggs. The mate’s startled yell was cut short as he hit the rail and jack-knifed over into the sea. His head struck the side and he went under.

The Flying Dutchman sailed onward to the vast Atlantic, leaving Scraggs and his dreams of riches in the depths of the English Channel. Vanderdecken smashed Jamil and Sindh to the deck with wild blows and kicks. He grabbed the stiletto and stood over the petrified men, his whole body shaking with wrath, bloodlight in his wild eyes. Neb stood by, holding on to Denmark’s neck, terrified at what he thought would happen next.

Suddenly a great sigh shook the captain’s shoulders, and he grated harshly at the conspirators. “On your feet, you treacherous rats! Walk in front of me to the fo’c’sle cabin, or I’ll cut your throats where you stand! You, boy, follow behind me with that dog. Cover my back!”

The remainder of the Dutchman ’s crew were sitting around the stove drinking coffee, or lying in their bunks and hammocks. With a loud bang the cabin door burst open. Sindh and Jamil were booted roughly inside, landing flat on their faces. Looking up with a start, the crew beheld Captain Vanderdecken with Neb and Denmark behind him. “Muster all hands now. Jump to it!”

There was an almighty scramble as Petros and others who had side cabins came stumbling in. An awful silence fell on the crew—they quailed under their captain’s icy glare. Ramming the stiletto into his belt, he seized Jamil and Sindh, hauling them up by their hair and bellowing at them.

“Who else was in this with you? Tell me or I’ll throw you to the fishes, like I did with that villain Scraggs!”

Jamil clasped his hands together and wept openly. “There was only us two, Kapitan. Scraggs made us do it. We were afraid of him. He said he’d kill us if we didn’t!”

Sindh joined him, tears running down the blue scar channel in his face, pleading for his life.

“He speaks the truth, Kapitan. We didn’t know Scraggs meant to kill you. We thought he was just going to steal the green stone. Spare us, please, we meant you no real harm!”

Ignoring their sniveling pleas, Vanderdecken beckoned to a burly German crewman. “Vogel, you are first mate now aboard my ship and will be paid as such. Make two hanging nooses and throw them over the mid-crosstrees. These criminals must pay for what they did.”

Vogel saluted but did not move. He spoke hesitantly. “Kapitan, if you execute them, it will leave us three hands short. No ship of this size could round Cape Horn with three experienced seamen missing.”

There was silence, then the captain nodded. “You are right, Mr. Vogel. See they only get half-rations of biscuit and water until we make harbor. They will be tried and hanged by a maritime court when we get back to Copenhagen. When they are not on duty, see they are shackled in the chain locker. Is that clear, Mr. Vogel?”

The new mate saluted. “Aye, Kapitan!” He turned to Neb. “Half-rations of biscuits and water for the rest of the trip, d’you hear that, cook?”

As Neb nodded obediently, Vanderdecken turned his quizzical gaze on the boy. “This lad is the cook? How so?”

Petros nursed his damaged hand, whimpering. “Kapitan, my hand is bad hurt. I could not cook with one hand.”

He tried to shrink away, but Vanderdecken grabbed Petros by the throat. He shook him as a terrier would a rat, the Greek’s terror-stricken eyes locked by the Dutchman’s icy glare. The captain’s voice dropped to a warning rasp. “I signed you aboard as cook, you useless lump of blubber. Now, get to your galley and cook, or I’ll roast you over your own stove!”

He hurled the unfortunate Petros bodily from the cabin. There was danger in Vanderdecken’s voice as he turned on the rest of his crew. “Every man does as I say on this vessel. Nobody will disobey my orders. Understood?”

Averting their eyes from his piercing stare, they mumbled a cowed reply. “Aye aye, Cap’n.”

Neb trembled as the captain’s finger singled him out. “You, come here. Bring the dog, stand beside me!”

Neb obeyed with alacrity, Den following dutifully alongside him. There was silence, and Vanderdecken’s eyes roamed back and forth beneath hooded brows—each crewman felt their fearful authority. “This boy and his dog, they will watch my back wherever I go. They will stay in my cabin, guarding me from now on.

“Vogel, take the wheel, put out a new watch. When we pass the Land’s End light, take her south and one point west, bound for Cape Verde Isles and out into the Atlantic. We’ll take this ship ’round Cape Horn and up to Valparaiso in record time.

“The Horn, Vogel, Tierra del Fuego! The roughest seas on earth! Many a vessel has been smashed to splinters by waves, storm, and rocks there. Seamen’s bones litter the coast. But by thunder, I intend to make it in one piece. The rest of you, as master of the Flying Dutchman, I’ll tolerate no slacking, disobedience, or backsliding. I’ll see the white of your rib bones beneath a lash if you even think of crossing me. Now, get about your duties!”

Pushing men contemptuously aside, Vanderdecken strode from the fo’c’sle cabin with Neb and Den close in his wake. The boy was completely baffled by the turn of events—glad not to be under Petros’s sadistic rule, yet apprehensive to find himself expected to be in close proximity to the captain all the time. One other thing gnawed at his mind: Cape Horn and the other strange-sounding place, Tierra del Fuego, the roughest seas on earth. What were they really like? A warm nose touching his hand reminded him that whatever the danger, he was no longer alone. He had a true friend, the dog.

5

AFTER A WHILE NEB LOST COUNT OF time; nights and days came and went with numbing regularity. It was a world of water, with no sign of land on any horizon. Both he and the dog had been seasick. There were moments when the boy wished himself back on land. Even living in Bjornsen’s herring cellar seemed preferable to the high seas. As the Flying Dutchman sailed south and a point west, warm waters and fair weather fell behind in the ship’s wake. It grew progressively colder, windier, and harsher. The south Atlantic’s vast, heaving ocean wastes were relentless and hostile, with troughs deep as valleys and wavecrests like huge hills.

It took a lot of getting used to, one moment being lifted high with nought but sky around . . . next instant, falling into perilous troughs, facing a blue-green wall of solid water. Having few duties to keep him busy was very frustrating, and Neb sat with Denmark just inside the stern cabin doorway, forbidden to move until the captain ordered it.

Vanderdecken talked to himself a lot when studying charts and plotting his vessel’s course. The boy could not avoid hearing most of what was said.

“Yesterday we passed the coast of Brazil in the Southern Americas, somewhere ’twixt Recife and Ascension Island. I gave orders to the steersman to take another point sou’west. In three days we should pick up the currents running out from Rio de la Plata, sailing then closer to the coast, but keeping well out at the Gulf of San Jorge towards Tierra del Fuego and Cape Horn, the most godforsaken place on earth.”